


End of the Line

by cilceon



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon
Summary: “Traitor.” Was that Glory? “You goddamn traitor!”There was a clattering as the inhabitants rose to their feet. Glory was standing between Dez and Wanderer, her mini gun drawn. She was about to fire when Wanderer stopped her.“G7-81 initiate reset. Authorization code Beta 3 Cirrus.” Two sentences were all it took for The Posterchild of a Liberated Synth to drop to the floor, emotionless. Glory might as well have been dead.Wanderer stood over Glory, disinterest distorting her face. She looked like she had just swatted an annoying fly. Her eyes were cold, the warmth - the hope they always held was replaced with contempt. Wanderer’s clothes were unnaturally clean, not a single blood stain or tear was in her flannel. Black hair tied back in a tighter bun than she normal. Deliverer was drawn, held casually at her side. A chill went down Deacon’s spine. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ Hi there! there's a better version that's much longer & more painful [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29839095) that you should read instead!! This version is only up for archival reasons xx

PLEASE READ NOTES ABOVE

Deacon set his hand on one of the pawns in front of him, then moved it forwards on the board. The smallest piece in the game represented laborers, the farmers. To the Railroad, the tourists. There were more of them than any other piece on the board, and often they were sacrificed to save the more valuable pieces. He read somewhere that in medieval times, serfs were considered no more than property of landowners. Life was ferociously difficult during that long-forgotten part of history. They worked hard and died young, just like now. They were often left unprotected while wars raged around them. They could be traded, used as a diversion, or even sacrificed to allow others to avoid danger.

Their pawns - their tourists, were more than that, he’d like to think. Not so easily disposable. Not used as diversions, per say, but just as easily tossed to the side when no longer of use.

Desdemona moved her rook, taking a pawn. The castle piece on the chessboard was the home; or the refuge - whatever hole the Railroad found themselves in. It couldn’t move many spaces, but enough to escape capture from an opposing piece. They were also safehouse heads, like High Rise, Caretaker, Mister Tims. String pullers for the string pullers.

He moved one of his knights after a few more turns. The knight, the professional soldier of whose job it was to protect persons of rank. They were more important than pawns, but less important than rooks, bishops, kings, or queens. Their purpose in the game of chess is to protect the more important pieces, and they can be sacrificed to save those pieces just as pawns can. These are the runners, Drummer Boy’s charges. A thankless position to have, but a vital one.

Now he moved a bishop. This piece used to represent the church when religion played a large part in every person’s life. A priest in the Catholic church who had risen through the ranks to a more powerful position. The Heavy: Glory, Wanderer, himself in some regards. Deadly, fast, and efficient. Easily overlooked and underestimated.

Now the queen was the only piece that represents a woman, and she was the most powerful piece of the game. In the game of chess, there is only one queen for each side. Deacon knew that not a lot of folks knew that queens often held a powerful, yet precarious, position.

The king was often guided by her advice, and in many cases the queen played games of intrigue at court. But kings could set wives aside with a flick of the wrist and many women juggled to hold her place at court. Often, she held more power than the king did. The Third and the Second of the Leader. Himself and, regrettably, Carrington.

Dez nudged her king a space, the tallest piece. As well defended on the chessboard as the woman across from him was. The surrender of the king would mean the loss of the empire to invading armies. It was to everyone’s advantage, from the lowest farmer to the highest-ranking official, to keep the king safe from harm. The king was the most important, but not the most powerful piece in chess. If you do not protect your king, you lose the game. This is where things got muddy. Desdemona was the head, yes. But if she were to fall another would rise to take her place. It was Wanderer that they couldn’t lose. Their access to the Institute, the leader of the Minutemen. If he lost Wanderer, he’d lose everything they had climbed up to reach.

They were so close yet so far from their goal.

Deacon and Desdemona’s chess match was interrupted by the familiar clicking of the password lock leading to HQ being opened. Each member of the catacombs had a different sequence of letters to add before railroad was spelt with the dial, allowing a chime to ring out that was uniquely theirs. This one was Wanderer’s.

“Check mate.” Dez said triumphantly, folding her arms from her place. He snapped his head from the hallway leading to the door to the board between them. Sure enough, Desdemona had his king on its last legs. His queen, the only hope for the sorry chess piece was already out of the picture. When did that happen?

He looked back to the entrance; she was taking an uncharacteristically long time to get down here.

“Deacon.” Dez once again tore his attention from the door. “It’s your move. Don’t tell me you’re giving up?” There was a smile on her face, it looked almost as if it belonged to the Cheshire cat. It was a look he’d never seen on her before.

Wanderer moved down the stairs now, footsteps echoing louder than he thought possible in such a small place. They seemed to be reverberating off of every surface of the tomb. Was it always as tiny as it felt right now? Deacon looked back to his last remaining chess piece; all of the opposing ones were still in play. He hadn’t removed a single piece from the playing field. The score was never close to being even.

“Traitor.” Was that Glory? “You goddamn traitor!” 

There was a clattering as the inhabitants rose to their feet. Glory was standing between Dez and Wanderer, her mini gun drawn. She was about to fire when Wanderer stopped her.

“G7-81 initiate reset. Authorization code Beta 3 Cirrus.” Two sentences were all it took for The Posterchild of a Liberated Synth to drop to the floor, emotionless. Glory might as well have been dead.

Wanderer stood over Glory, disinterest distorting her face. She looked like she had just swatted an annoying fly. Her eyes were cold, the warmth - the hope they always held was replaced with contempt. Wanderer’s clothes were unnaturally clean, not a single blood stain or tear was in her flannel. Black hair tied back in a tighter bun than she normal. Deliverer was drawn, held casually at her side. A chill went down Deacon’s spine. Something was wrong. _Very wrong._

Behind his friend were two men he didn’t recognize, but there was no mistake of the black of their clothing. Coursers.

Wanderer brought two coursers down into HQ and effectively gave Glory the synth equivalent of a lobotomy. There was no way this was happening.

It was Tom who spoke next. He had pushed Drummer Boy behind himself, turning into a human shield of sorts. “I liked you, y-you bastard. You were our family.”

Wanderer turned her head slowly to the side, looking at the two men. She was impassive, almost robotic in her movement. No one moved as she lifted her gun - Tommy Whisper’s gun that he gave to her. That he had placed in her hand and curled her fingers around so she’d take it. Wanderer lifted it now in one fluid chilling motion and shot a single bullet through Tinker Tom’s skull. The bullet continued, threading itself through Drummer Boy’s as well. The two men fell together, blood pooling around them.

Wanderer lowered the gun, not sparing the corpses of her friends a glance as she took a step over Glory, like the woman was nothing but a discarded bishop from their game. As she moved, so did her companions. One took down Morse, then Terry, the other Mr. Smiley, and Vermillion.

Deacon didn’t take his eyes from Wanderer as Carrington spoke. His voice was full of rage. “I knew we should have killed you.” Then the sounds of bones snapping, followed by a thud.

He moved to stand between Desdemona and Wanderer - the way Tom had for Drummer. Hopefully, he could be a better barrier than his brother had.

“We trusted you,” Desdemona barked from over his shoulder, her voice shaking with pain. “You will burn in hell for this.”

Wanderer tilted her head to the side, looking right through Deacon to the other woman. Her eyes were vacant, as if they weren’t even in front of her.

Dez continued, anger bubbling over, “I should never have listened to Deacon. I shou-”

Another shot, this one going right over his shoulder. Right into Desdemona.

“Were you going to say that you should stop talking?” Wanderer finally spoke. Her tone cynical, hollow. “Because yes. You should stop talking.”

Dez had her hands clamped around her throat, blood seeping through her fingers, running out of her mouth, onto the floor with that of the other’s. The entire ground was red now, blood up to his ankles. Wanderer seemed untouched by it. She looked so clean.

The leader of the Railroad fell to her knees, gargling out words Deacon couldn’t understand as he fell with her, holding her body.

Wanderer laughed. “Hm, what’s that? Do you need Stanley? Oh, dear Doctor Carrington? There’s a patient here to see you.” Wanderer looked down at the gun, inspecting it thoughtfully. “I’m sorry dear, it seems the doctor’s busy. Don’t worry though, I’m a trained professional.”

Her head was cocked to the side once more as she lifted Deliverer, a flick of her wrist and another shot went through Desdemona. This time her forehead, ending the life of his friend. She wasn’t as heavy in his arms as he remembered a dead body being. That wasn’t the sort of weight you could forget.

Deacon stood, letting Dez fall into the pool below him. He was the only one left. “Why would you betray us? Betray me?”

Her expression remained unchanged, “How could I betray you if I was never on your side to begin with.”

“X5-77.” One of the coursers spoke from PAM’s room, “Have you completed our objective?”

She kept her eyes on Deacon with her response. “Almost. Return to Father. I will be there shortly.”

No. No. This wasn’t Wanderer.

“Aw, have we finally figured it out?” She looked back to the gun and then to him. “She was so confident, saying you'd see through me in less than an hour of my arriving, but here it was taking you thirty-six days and twelve hours. Truly you are such a disappointment, John.”

Deacon balled his hands into fists, an insurmountable rage going through him, “What did you do to her.”

“I didn't do anything.” The courser shrugged. “Sweet little Wanderer’s … well let's say she's resting. Charlotte caused quite a scene when we told her what was going on. I believe she's tried escaping six times - no, seven times if you count the one forty-eight minutes ago; when I received the pleasure to inform her that I was killing you myself. Of course, when I report back in, she’ll be told you died thinking it was her who ended your pathetic life.”

Deacon didn't speak, he just stared at the synth that he thought was his best friend for over a month. Wanderer had been gone and he hadn’t noticed. It was his job to know everything, but he didn’t see this… his final mistake he supposed.

“Oh? What, you're not going to say anything? No final words to send to your lover when I return? This is going to destroy her you know.”

His lover? Deacon hadn’t so much as hinted to his affections. Sure, he'd thought of it, but he always threw the suggestion away the second it rose. He didn't deserve someone like her, especially now.

“Pathetic.” She brought Deliverer to his head, fitting that he’d be killed by the very gun he gave to the person he loved most.

A loud bang woke Deacon from his sleep, causing him to bolt upright in the tiny cot he stashed in one of the less frequented corners of HQ. Carrington’s voice followed soon after.

“Jesus Tom! Can you please not run your experiments when I’m performing surgery?”

“Aw, it's more like a shrapnel scavenger hunt in Wanderer’s shoulder.” It was Glory’s voice that answered.

Wanderer groaned in response, “Ew, Glory, stop talking.” Despite whatever was happening the two women sounded joyful in the endeavour.

“Quit moving.” Carrington chided; malice absent from his tone.

As he stood, Wanderer clocked his movement, a grimace on her face that she tried to turn into a smile. He returned the gesture. Thank god he slept with the gasses on, or else she’d see the remnants of panic in his eyes.

Deacon took stock of the people in the catacombs. Morse was decoding something at her desk. Tom and his boys, Terry and Mr. Smiley, were doing… something in the designated Tom Experiment Corner. Vermillion, Drummer and Desdemona were going over a supply run at the well turned table in the center of the room. A cigarette burning with life in Dez’s hand. He peaked into PAM’s room, she looked to be in her sleep mode. Well, she wouldn’t be for long.

He walked fully into the room. Wanderer had insisted months ago that they clean the place up. Really it was just her and Drummer Boy that did most of the cleaning, but since then PAM’s space had felt somehow larger.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and casually leaned back against the wall opposite of the robot. Usually, PAM spoke the second someone got within five feet of her. Deacon was the exception.

“Heya PAM.” He kept his voice low, knowing PAM would match his register.

“Greeting token recognized. Setting human/machine interface to one hundred percent. Agent Deacon.” Ouch, not even a hello?

“I got a question for you, strictly hypothetical.” He needed to choose his words carefully, PAM backlogged every word that was spoken to her.

“Caution. Biological life forms behave erratically and npredictably. All output subject to an extremely high margin of error.” PAM brought her head up to look at him.

“Yeah, yeah I know PAM. You say that every time.” Deacon sighed, talking to PAM wasn’t high on his list of favorite pastimes.

“Correct. What is your query?”

“I’d like it to stay on the downlow.”

“Switching into Agent Deacon’s subfolder…” He has a subfolder? “Operation complete. Reminder. Railroad Alpha will have access to conversation upon request. I repeat: what is your query?”

“What is the likelihood that Wanderer will be replaced with a courser from the Institute.” He looked to the mirror above the lockers that was angled in just the right way to see through the doorway from where he was leaning.

“Reminder. All predictions on the rogue variable are extremely-”

“I know PAM.”

“Likelihood of Agent Wanderer being replaced with a synth courser equivalent is marginally higher than any other agent, at 33.776 percent. This percentage is largely affected by solitary operations Agent Wanderer is assigned.”

Deacon chewed on the inside of his cheek. “What is the likelihood of her being replaced by a courser while in Vault 111?”

“Requesting information. Is Agent Deacon aware both Railroad Alpha and Agent Wanderer have asked this query?”

He wasn’t. “Of course, PAM.”

“Pausing human/machine interface. Calculating… Processing. Odds of Rogue Variable being replaced with an Institute Courser before arrival into organization Railroad lowers with the growth of time spent in organization. Current likelihood is 74 percent.”

The grip his teeth had on his cheek tightened, eyes not leaving the mirror. He could see the back of Wanderer in the glass. It looked like Carrington was trying to convince her to let him stitch up her bullet wound. By the look on his face and the animate movement of her hands, he wasn’t winning. Glory had her arms crossed, looking at the pair with a soft smile uncharacteristic for her. If she looked towards the doorway, Glory would see him talking with PAM.

PAM continued, “Further information regarding Institute’s intention with the child of Rogue Variable is required to greatly impact prediction. Resuming human/machine interface. Has Agent Deacon acquired more information on Agent Wanderer?”

“Yeah, she doesn’t like stitches.” He continued watching the scene in the other room, their voices were muffled but he could have sworn he head Carrington call Wanderer a child and in response she called him a… clampet? The easiest way to tell she was over 200 hundred was when she used words only a pre-war ghoul or Nick Valentine would know.

“Noted. Adding: light trypanophobia to Agent Wanderer’s file.”

“She’ll kick my ass if she finds out I told you that PAM.”

“Irrelevant.” If Deacon didn’t know any better, he’d think PAM didn’t like him all that much.

“That breaks my heart old girl.” Glory put her hand on Carrington’s shoulder then stood to walk towards the room. Not good. “Looks like we need to wrap up out convo.”

“Acknowledged. Resuming sleep mode. Goodbye.” Her head lowed to its previous position, the whirling of her motors slowing.

“Hey, Deacon.” Glory stuck her head through the door. “Mind coming out here and telling Wanderer that you’ll be sad if she doesn’t get these stitches or something before Carrington pops a head vein and passes out?” There was a smile on Glory’s face that said that she wouldn’t mind watching that event playout.

He made a playful tisking sound as he pushed off the wall. “Kids these days, am I right?” Deacon walled through into the catacombs to be in the same room as his family.

“She’s older than you are.” Glory barked out a laughed, full of life. Full of Glory.


End file.
